


Into my lap a great star will fall

by behzaintfunny



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Falling In Love, Gen, Love Confessions, M/M, Someone find it, The plot went missing, poet AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 12:36:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15510015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/pseuds/behzaintfunny
Summary: "Victor's heart aches with a far forgotten pain. His fingers start shaking, missing not the cold edges of his pen but a loving hand that would hold him."Alternatively, an oddly poetic study on Victor Zsasz.





	Into my lap a great star will fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shirl85](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirl85/gifts).



Mundane Sunday evenings tend to be followed by even worse Mondays. It's best that you're prepared for it, but how can one really fully be ready?

Victor sighs, the distant commotion rummaging inside his mind. He sits alongside poppies and daisies, where he is least likely to be approached. An open notebook lies on his thighs, blissfully blank until, eventually, a stream of thoughts shall wear off on it. He taps his pen on the soft grass absentmindedly and gazes at the clouds that run through the firmament above him.

It makes him remember the day that later proved to be the best one of his life.

All those months ago, underneath a far gentler, slower sky, he sealed his fate. In an alley that bears zero importance, he met the man that will later change his life. Oswald was his name and merry was the sound of his laughter when Victor eagerly accepted to be his editor and translator respectively. From the moment he saw sunshine flickering in Oswald's eyes, he knew he was entranced. Under layers of diamonds and silks proved to be an honest man, a kind person and, most importantly, a ginormous talent. Victor knew from the first time he had read some of his works in German that they shall go a long way together.

Victor cannot bite down the chuckle that escapes his lips when he thinks of where that choice led him to. He writes something down on the blank page before him hastily before shutting the notebook. He knows he is to meet with Oswald in twenty minutes. He supposes he can wait a little longer.

Victor closes his eyes and lets his mind be carried away elsewhere, to a blissful nothingness.

***

_With all sweet-scented scarletflowers_   
_He lured me._   
_I could not bear this narrow room for one more night;_

_Before his door I stole crumbs of love_   
_And, longing for him, consumed my life._

***

"I do not wish to be misunderstood."

The pen falls abruptly from Victor's loose grip. Idly, he notices the consistent tapping of rain on the window sill. He wishes for it to go away, stop fiddling with his mind, stop disallowing him from focusing--

He mumbles, "When has that ever been a priority of yours?"

The sigh that erupts from nearby said window, reverberating through the briefly furnished room, causes him to reluctantly lift his head from where it was settled against his other arm. He hadn't stayed up so late in such a long time that no matter how many cups of coffee he drank, nothing seemed to make any difference.

There, head thrown back against the wall in a nonchalant laziness, stands Oswald Kapelput -- Germany's biggest modern day romantic. The sun that was slowly rising from beneath the cover of clouds paints his face in a peculiar array of colors, gently adorning his fair skin. Though never much of a painter, Victor suddenly wishes he could magically change the pen into a brush and capture the alluring scene for years to come. For now, all he could do was ponder over whether Oswald's over-the-top self was just a constant state of his -- not merely for the public but for the entire world. It didn't matter whether it was his editor watching him through half closed lids or the entirety of München. He would always wear his finest furs alongside jewelery that no woman should be ashamed of. It makes Victor think of his paycheck and the rent that hasn't been paid for in two months...

Oswald looks at him through his shoulder, "It never has been. Times change, Victor. You of all people should know best."

Victor looks down at his hands, weary and stained from carelessly spilt coffee. Blisters have become an unwelcome norm ever since he stopped letting go of the pen. He looks at Oswald's delicate fingers that capture a wine glass loosely and is filled with a newfound feeling of envy.

Oswald sighs, "Von Sternen sind wir eingerahmt und flüchten aus der Welt, Victor. Aus der Welt!"

Victor fiddles with the papers that are displayed atop his workspace -- a mere coffee table though, in this house, he could afford to take up a whole study --, nervously looking for the needed sheet of paper. His fingers tap on the top of the table in a tick he never fully got rid of.

"'We are framed by stars' yes, yes, yes." Victor scribbles hastily on a sheet, though not the intended one, "'And fly amongst them'"

"See, this is the problem!" Oswald throws himself onto the couch in a fit of drama, "I want them to understand me. This is not what I wish to say! Think more profound, Victor. Think like the artist."

Suddenly, the face of his professor as she tells him his poetry is lacklustre. _You'll never get into the industry! You lack all the qualities! This is not the place for you!_ His grip on the pen toughens, knuckles crackling with strained effort.

He whispers, "'And take flight from the world.'"

Oswald smiles from behind the wine glass but Victor never notices. He is too far gone in a land far greater than reality. It is him and the pen, nothing more, nothing less.

Ich glaube wir sind Engel...

 _'I believe we are angels'_ , he writes.

 _Angels don't take flight from the world,_ he thinks.

People do.

***

_When we look at each other_   
_Our eyes blossom._

_And we are astounded_   
_By the miracles we create._   
_And everything is pure sweetness._

_We are framed by stars_   
_And take flight from the world._

_I believe we are angels._

***

On peculiarly cold, winter days, he hides in the solace that is his small apartment. Under decks of papers, hidden away from commotion and unnecessary emotions, he feels most safe. The last of the sunset peeks through the heavy blinds as he finishes his third cigarette of the night. Its ashes fall dangerously close to the manuscript he had been given. It is long since he cared remotely about whether he returns it in perfect condition.

He runs a weary hand across his scalp. His fingers quickly find the forgotten cup of cold coffee, drinking from it as though it's his last saving grace.

Maybe it is.

(He remembers drinking hot coffee that burned his tounge in the quiet comfort of Oswald's kitchen while he waited for him to get home, his manuscript practically tingling in his hand. His heart racing with excitement because _this! this is it, Oswald! this is the best it'll ever get!_ , awaiting the moment Oswald reads it as though it was the only thing that ever mattered in life.

Then, muffled laughter emerging from the hallway. Somehow, he had known, then, but could not bring himself to move a muscle, to do anything. When the front door bursted open and with it, Oswald and Ed kissing so desperately like it is their only ever chance to get to it. Oswald pinned against the purple wall he hates so much but would never admit aloud, gradually brought apart in waves of extreme pleasure as Ed's hands roam over his body with childish curiosity. It was magical in the most inappropriate sense, one that he should not enjoy. He couldn't pry his eyes away but it was because of the anger that was slowly consuming him.

He had not meant for the cup to fall to the floor, truthfully. When it did, shattering almost as loudly as his heart did, the two's eyes landed on him in two vastly different manners. Fury and impatience glowing in one's, embarassment and something unreadable in the other's. He crumpled the damned manuscript in hand before rushing out the door, making sure to enunciate it shutting as loudly as humanly possible.

If it had been tears that stained the manuscript, he would never admit.)

Victor re-adjusts the glasses that sit uncomfortably on his nose as a string of light shines powerfully and occupies his peripheral vision. Gazed, he walks over to the window. His knees crack with the strained effort it takes. He gently moves the curtain that seperates him from the great, big world. He feels as though he is interrupting something he was not meant to see. Before him, a sun that has practically evaporated, that left behind a myriad of only the most alluring colours. Vast shades of yellow that combine with red, embracing and kissing to achieve utmost closure, paint the sky, the world's most important canvas.

Victor's heart aches with a far forgotten pain. His fingers start shaking, missing not the cold edges of his pen but a loving hand that would hold him.

Victor imagines the stars that grace the sky represent the love he had forsaken. Burning, passionate, yet far away, beyond reach. His hand touches the cold glass pane, aching to reach the stars that glimmer so.

***

_But you never came with the evening—_   
_I sat waiting in a shawl of stars._

_...Whenever there was a knocking at my door,_   
_It was my own heart._

_It now hangs on every doorpost,_   
_Even on yours;_

_Between the ferns the fireroses expire_   
_In the withering garland._

_I dyed the heaven blackberry_   
_With my heartblood._

_But you never came with the evening—_   
_...I stood waiting in golden shoes._

***

"Es wird ein großer Stern in meinen Schoß fallen…"

Oswald mumbles to himself as he turns the radio on louder. He weighs the porcelain cup of mint tea in one hand, watching the water wave gently.

"Why must you always avoid me so?"

Victor looks up from his spot on the couch, unsure whether he had imagined the whispered words falling out from Oswald's mouth.

Victor mumbles, "How come? I'm always here."

He idly watches the flames flickering in the fireplace, dancing the world's most infamous ballet. He notes on how the couch dips slightly where Oswald sits next to him, so close yet so far. He feels as though his neck is stuck in place - he cannot bring himself to look away.

"Here, maybe." Oswald says quietly, "But not here."

Before he knows, Oswald's much warmer hand brings his own to where his heart lays underneath. Only then does Victor look away, staring at the man before him as though in a daze. Oswald's hand is covering his own, pressing it into the constant rhythm that is greater than any piece of music he had ever come across. He looks him in the eye, gentle and only the smallest bit confused because, somehow, he had always known. It was right before him all this time.

With his free hand, he brushes away the hairs that threaten to fall into Oswald's eyes. Silently asking, begging for permission, he shifts closer.

Oswald meets him halfway, the soft feel of his lips on his almost missable. Victor feels as though he is truly running amongst stars because there is no way the world could gift him this much pleasure. Oswald kisses surprisingly gently, as though he had all the time in the world. Victor's mind blurs with the heavy musk of his cologne, dizzying him with love and lust alike. His hand finds Oswald's onyx hair, pulling only the slightest, desperately needing to anchor himself to something real.

"It's you. It's always been you." Oswald whispers against his lips, "I've always wanted to tell you but didn't know how."

Victor pulls him into a light embrace, providing Oswald with all the warmth from his body as though it would wordlessly answer his confession. He leaves a single kiss on the exposed skin on his neck, inhaling the sweet scent that is slowly driving him mad.

"I know. I think I've always known."

***

_Into my lap a great star will fall..._   
_We would waken the night,_

_And pray in tongues_   
_Carved like harps._

_We would be reconciled in the night—_   
_So much of God overflows._

_Our hearts are children_   
_Who, weary-sweet, would rest._

_Out lips want to kiss,_   
_What do you fear?_

_Does my heart not verge on yours—_   
_Your blood still stains my cheeks red._

_We would be reconciled in the night,_   
_If we embrace, we shall not die._

_Into my lap a great star will fall._

**Author's Note:**

> Preprare yourselves for a very long note.
> 
> Firstly, this work goes to Shirl85, who I hope enjoys this somehow though this might not exactly be what they expected!
> 
> Secondly, none of the poems are mine. They are all by a fantastic Jewish-German poet, Else Lasker-Schüler, and I encourage everyone to check out her poems. They truly are magical and it is only because of her works that this fic came to be. I struggled with it immensely and would have never done it without her beautiful, stunningpoetry.
> 
> In appropriate order, the poems are:  
> \- a fragment from "My drama"  
> \- "To the Prince of the Grail"  
> \- "Parting"  
> \- "Reconciliation"
> 
> Lastly, I hope that my fic reached at least somebody's expectations. It's my first and probably last time writing this pairing, which proved to be harder than I expected, but I do hope you liked it. As always, comments and kudos are highly encouraged!
> 
> Oh, and for Exchange purposes, I am also @gordohn on tumblr.


End file.
